


Drabble Collection

by neonlunacy



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dalish Elves, Dragon Age - Freeform, Elves, Gen, Skyrim - Freeform, Skyrim Werewolves, Vampires, Werewolves, all my characters have this lovely thing called trauma, and they all hate me for it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:33:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27292003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonlunacy/pseuds/neonlunacy
Summary: Just some various unfinished pieces I decided to throw all together in one place so I don't have to sift through docs to reread them lmaoIncludes original works and some video game stuff like dragon age and skyrim original characters





	1. Death Knows

“You said you hear the cries of death, right?”

The shadowed figure is standing still, silhouetted outline against the brightness of the moon-lit window. Suit covered arms folded behind his back. He is un-breathing until he speaks. For which he inhales deeply ( through his muzzled face ), pursing pallid lips. “I do.”

The fledgling by the door let his jaw clench from the reply, eyebrows knitting together in a frown while he chokes back bitter words and bitter memories. Waking the little ancient nestled between the two opposing beings was the last thing either wanted. Tan fists lightly shook with the effort to keep himself staring, holding the eye contact that kept him frozen in his instincts. 

“And you’ll take those deserving?”  
The stillness relents to nod. 

Where the shadow stood calm and unmoving, unnerved before the window, the vampire is digging bloody crescents into his palms while fighting his own lungs for air. Watching the creation calling himself Death looking so emotionless like he’d always thought. Always known.

The muscles in his neck pinch and flex in the struggle for words before he finally breathes, something he doesn’t require but still begs mercy for.

*“Then why didn’t you hear me?”*

Silence reclaims its place in the cold bedroom, crawling over plush toys and frilled curtains, over the painstaking oil painted portrait nestled on the wall. It wraps around the shadow like a second skin, over the vampire like a plastic bag. 

A glint in the eyes of the man reflects in the dark. The only semblance of life in death present apart from the face it wears. A face. A mask.  
But the silence withholds their words and leaves the young one bristling. 

“For years. Years I begged. I pleaded. I prayed. If you heard me, why didn’t you answer? How many times?”

Blank eyes cast their gaze aside to look at the slumbering girl rather than face the pained questions from the boy. 

“I can’t give it back.” 

He sniffs as if he was crying, but his face is dry. 

“I don’t want it back.”


	2. Vedhan

“Why are you so hateful of me?”

“Why are YOU so embarrassed of ME?! What did I do Elera? _Please,_ what did I do?”

“I-- _nothing_ , Vedhan. Why would you ever ask that?”

“Really? Because all my life you’ve- you’ve been- _ashamed_ of me. _Better than me._ Disgusted by me..”

“Vedhan-”

“You shut me out! Acted like I was.. I was nothing! No one ever even looked at me! No one! Not even _Ada!_ ”

“ _Vedhan-_ ”

“You’d laugh at me, then you’d pretend like you were- like I was your _friend_ and then leave me behind and alone! You’d smile these- these- these- _fake_ smiles that never reached your eyes. And all I’d see? All I’d ever see was _hatred! Why?!”_

“Will you stop and _let me talk?_ Vedhan, you’re just- _”_

“I'm what? What?! Tell me!"

"You're- _different_ . But you’re not a freak! We _never_ looked at you like that. We TRIED to talk to you! You didn’t want to talk to us!”

“Stop it.”

“Stop what? Telling the truth?”

“Stop LYING!”

“Vedhan, _listen to me!”_

“Don’t- stop- stop _talking_ to me like that! Like I’m _wrong._ Like I’m _weak! I’m not weak.”_ … “I’m not weak… I’m- I’m _better_ than I’ve _ever_ been! Without you! Without the clan! None of you! I’m not _like that,_ anymore!”

… 

“No. You’re not. You’re a _disgrace._ ”


	3. Tura Tullius

“You left me there to die! Stared right through me as if I was nothing, to be beheaded like the rest of those stormcloaks! How could you stand mere steps away and watch with disdain as your own daughter is _slaughtered?”_

“Daughter? You’re mad.”He was trying to hide his dirty little secret to his squad. What a fucking joke.

“Does the name Mira Vidian ring any bells? The woman you loved? And _left?!_ With a daughter to feed while you idly sit by in ignorance.  
But no, you knew full well who I was. I was yours! Your **blood!**

You sought me out and called for my aid and yet at the site of my execution you turned on your heels like a coward!”

She clutched the sword in her grip, sweat beading at the tight confine between steel and skin. Her posture was rod straight, poised and composed despite the sheer fury coming off her in waves, muscles beginning to ache from the intensity, and staring down her father with a ferocity to send even the Princes scattering back into shadow.

Grey eyes staring into stark familiarity.

Tullius was by the war table, shock written evidently on his face now matter how he trained it back into a calm expression. The bastard who had left her life not once, but twice now. First at the age of four, and now days after her supposed death. It was almost laughable how he leant against the wood for support. As if he was the one in need of it.

A war torn hand raised and scrubbed at an equally weathered face, scratching against peppered stubble.

“If it weren’t for that dragon, perhaps you could’ve seen the executioner drive his axe into my neck just like the bastard before me. Would that have pleased you, _father?”_

“Tura-“

“Oh, so now you remember? What stopped you back in Helgen?! The Thalmor? Enlighten me!”


	4. Training

“Get up.”

Sharp breaths in quick succession. His body splayed across the floor. He’s out of breath, sweat drenched over his bare back.

“I can't.”

_“Get up.”_

“I _can't_... [strained noise].” His limbs are dead weights holding him down. His arms numb, the static fuzz of feeling barely there sitting at his wrists. He makes a fist and feels nothing in his fingers. The sight of them blurry to his half open eyes, swaying though he was unmoving.

“Yes you can.”

His eyes close again and he drags his split palms against the cold ground towards himself. He sucks in a sharp breath and holds it like it’ll help him bring himself back up. The muscles in his forearms tense to the brink of his skin, flush against it so hard you could almost see the colours of the veins in the strain. His teeth bite and he groans again - not in pain, but in frustration. Exhaustion.

A knee is barely drawn up to hold himself further when his arms collapse underneath him and the little breath in him is knocked back out against the concrete.

A wheeze almost akin to a whine slips out with the air, and his chest is rising slow again.

It’s out of sheer luck that he moves just enough so his chin doesn’t collide and shatter against the ground, biting his own tongue.

Moving just enough to lie halfway onto his side, those same lids forcibly peel themselves open and stare blurrily upwards. He huffs open mouthed and gives up, rocking back onto his chest with the cold ground against his cheek. “I can't yet.”

The person standing above him sighs disappointedly, and a cold hand wraps around his clammy skin and helps him up.

“Do better next time.”

“Yes.”


	5. Morgana Harcourt

The curtains were unceremoniously yanked from their dormancy, once protecting the room from the cold and the sunlight and now pulled harshly and bunched, allowing that same sunlight to wash the bedroom in it’s warmth.

“Good morning, Miss Harcourt! What a beautiful day it is.” A cheery voice rang out, the same one that pulled the curtains.

“Mrrrhgh.” Came the bundled up figure underneath layers of expensive covers.

“Oh come now, your father is waiting for you. He wishes to have brunch.” The maid sang with chide, puttering to stand by the bedside and tap at an assumed shoulder.  
The covers were shoved back and in their place was the sleepy and annoyed face of a girl. No older than twenty-five. Her hair was a pinkish hue, natural blonde dyed with liquid-turned powders, and braided in two, now frazzled with sleep.

She was mute in her frustration, merely pouting at her maid, Tilly, like it would help her escape her duties and garner more sleep. “Please don’t tell me I have to wear another one of those dresses.”

“I’m afraid so, dear.” A grunt and soft _thump_ of a head hitting a pillow was heard. “But it’s such a pretty dress! I'm sure you’ll prefer this one over yesterday’s.” Tilly’s flats tapped against the wood as she hurried to show off the newest custom-made dress in the collection. It was a mess of ruffles and frill, coloured a soft pink akin to the young lady’s hair, if not a smidgen paler.

It perked her up the smallest amount, but the idea of all the fanfare it would take to lace her into her undergarments and put that dress on afterwards destroyed all of that. She huffed again, rolling onto her side and taking the covers with her. “I’d rather deal with Monsieur Oliveri’s courtings than _that._ ”


	6. Kavir

A black haired Nord residing in the masses of forests in the Falkreath hold. A werewolf by unfortunate circumstance..

He is large in stature and well muscled for survival, with a fast-acting temper but kind heart buried beneath the layers of carefully crafted barriers.

He is seldom seen in cities or towns unless extremely necessary for supplies, especially when moon cycles are nearing renewal, for fear that he may kill innocents during his turns.  
Wolves are kind to him and view him as kin. He is often seen with wild wolves by his side, aiding in hunts and allowing him a home in their dens.

—————

He frequents between The Reach, Eastmarch and Winterhold. Stays clear of Haafingar after accidentally slaughtering a travelling band of adventurers and two guards. He doesn’t like staying in Whiterun Hold. That was a pack’s territory, and he hated to have a confrontation with them. Falkreath made him feel uneasy, not wishing to cross into Hircine’s land even if the beast drove him there. It was empty land of his kind, except two scents he picked up that were both solitary.

During a supply visit that inevitably took him into the major city of Riften, he had little gold and resorted to stealing some of what he needed. Hunting had been lacking this season. He was almost approached by a Thieves’ Guild member he knew from childhood. He wasn’t recognised just yet, yet already cautious of the overwhelming company all around him and the guards’ growing suspicion, Kavir fled.

A week later, he ran into a man hauling a cart by horse along one of the main roads on the border of The Pale. He watched cautiously for over an hour, watching the little man pause and set up a makeshift tent for the night, babbling to himself and the... coffin.. propped in the cart. He was _singing._

The noise irritated Kavir. It irritated his companion too. An expecting wolf mother; he would hunt for her and she would let him stay in her den until she sought fit. Security for her soon to arrive pups.

Kavir eventually left to return to the den, hauling a goat over his shoulder.

Unlucky for the disturbed babbling man, that night Kavir turned. And the beast remembered his scent. Perhaps one of the Divines favoured him, for Kavir only slaughtered his horse. The scent of rotten death was too strong to kill any others.

He woke up naked and bloody, with a scrap of red fabric in his clutches and horse hair stuck in his teeth. Thankfully the wolf mother was there beside him, licking a fresh wound clean.

By cruel luck, Kavir took another life four weeks later.

He didn’t know whether the man was innocent or guilty in life, but it wracked through him nonetheless. Haunted him. He had kept himself posted outside the wolf mother’s den while she nursed her five newborns, and eventually blacked out during a hunt. He’d lost track of the cycles.

He must’ve encountered a group of bandits, adventures, something of the sort. He woke next to a mangled corpse and too much blood. His body was littered in fresh cuts. More than one, but the others had fled. Their prints were hours old. And he was a mere walk away from a town....

Someone started hunting him after that.

Kavir was restless. The feeling lingered at the back of his neck, making his hair rise and nails itch. He could smell them. The bite of silver stung at his nose and throat, but other than that? Mortal.

An argonian found him eventually. Kavir threw off his tracks more than once, but apparently this Veezara was determined.

He found him while Kavir was sleeping in a den. He woke to fur bristling at his chin and growls rumbling the dirt.  
They fought. Veezara killed a wolf. Kavir would’ve torn out his throat with his teeth had the burn of silver not stopped him. A slash cut across his middle, bleeding slow and heavy.

The Dark Brotherhood wanted him?

As far as Kavir knew, that organisation shouldn’t exist anymore. Perhaps the rumours he heard were false then.

He was tired and hungry. Having the time to stalk and hunt while on the run. Nor sleep. And his body was punishing him for it. Adding on the forceful shock back into awareness in the den.  
And he certainly couldn’t hunt enough to care for himself.. Not while recovering from a nasty silver inflicted wound. Bastard.

So he took the offer and followed Veezara back into Falkreath Hold.

Of fucking course they had a werewolf in their little family. The stench was suffocating the closer they neared the sanctuary. This was who he could smell every time he walked into Falkreath. The bastard that limited Kavir’s hunting grounds to the border and kept him on edge every moon.

Where was the other one?

Walking down the steps and into the first room, he was already face to face and barring teeth with the Nord. Blond and weathered and old. Kavir could beat him.

But not outnumbered like this, with an added injury to boot.

They almost did if he weren’t forced back by three of their members - including a little girl who stank of death - and the apparent Leader to soothe the opposing wolf like he were a domestic dog. Arnbjorn, the wolf’s name was. The leader was his wife.  
He wasn’t looking to be the second novelty pet to their collection.

And then the _singing_ was back.

Kavir wanted to hurl through the stone and back into the wilds. The rocky confines and sense of threat was doing wonders for his claustrophobic nature.

He looked eyes on the torn sleeve before the rest of the little man rounded the corner, face twisting further into disgust and need to **leave** as the red clad singer pointed a sharpened nail in his face and shouted “You!”

That was the final string cut.

Kavir twisted the little man’s wrist and fled the sanctuary for better surroundings in the Hold’s diminishing forest.

The leader, Astrid, followed him. Along with her husband.

Kavir was holding onto his head by a thread. Fur was already bristling on his neck, on his arms. He could hear the bones in his spine breaking and reassembling more than he could feel them. He was tired, he was hungry, he was hurt, and now.. now he was _angry_. Overwhelmed. Pissed that he had to come here unless he rathered bleeding out in a field.

Added with the fact they wanted to recruit him. He was no murderer. At least, not intentionally. Not to the innocent. And the Dark Brotherhood had no morals regarding criminals or otherwise. As long as those rituals were performed and gold was placed in their pocket, they had no qualms striking down average folk. It disgusted him.

But the beast curled around his heart yearned for fresh bloodshed. Meaningful bloodshed.

Astrid and Arnbjorn had calculated looks, watching him and assessing whatever his most plausible move was. The shock on their faces as Kavir calmed himself down and said he’d join was almost enough to make him laugh.


End file.
